Page 116 of Only the Wicked

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Quinn

Y

Just Jake. Noah on a new project.

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On a whim, I grab an extra paper cup, fill it with coffee, and head up to the team’s room on the seventh floor.

I rap on Jake’s door and a gruff, muffled voice asks, “Who is it?”

“Sydney. Brought you coffee.”

The door swings open, revealing Jake in his disheveled glory, bare-chested with low-slung pajama bottoms, his sandy blonde hair in massive disarray, twisting in all different directions, and his facial growth now a full, unruly beard.

“Did you go on a rager last night?” I step past him, passing him the black coffee. “Put on a shirt, dude.”

He sniffs the coffee, then drinks. “Thanks.”

There are two queen-size beds in his room. It’s a standard hotel room and noticeably different from the suite.

After tugging on a T-shirt he lifted from the floor, he pulls on the drapes, allowing the sunlight to flow freely into the room. I take a seat on the end of the unwrinkled bed.

“When did Noah leave?”

“Late last night.”

“And you went out?” Quinn filled me in on the video game playing Jake Ryder. He’s got a military background and looking at him now, I have to wonder if he parties like the stereotypical guy on leave.

“No.” He rubs a hand vigorously over his face. “Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t knock out until about four.” He lifts the coffee in a gesture of gratitude. “Thanks for this.” He sips it and eyes me. “How’s it going?”

“I came clean.” I barely know Jake, but there’s something about his bedraggled state that makes him approachable. “He’s going to work with us.”

He stares me down for a moment, his sleepy eyes assessing, then, assessment apparently over, he says, “Good deal.”

“That’s it?”

“Syd, I’m a Navy guy.” He says it without bravado, the way someone might mention they used to work in accounting. “My role in this dance is protection. You need me to take someone out, that I can do too.” His gaze flicks briefly to the window, assessing risks. A habit I recognize from operators who’ve spent too much time in war zones.

“You’re one of the goons trained to get inside people’s heads,” he continues, a hint of respect in his otherwise neutral tone. “You folks see things differently. If you say he’s trustworthy, after what I hear you’ve been through, then I’ll trust you.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

He lifts a shoulder like it’s nothing. “Hey, it’s not like I’m leading a squadron into enemy territory based on your gut. There’s little to lose here. And we’re still fleshing out this team.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s a new outfit. Owners are pretty hands off from what I can tell, but yet they pop in and ask questions.”

“Is it bothering Hudson?” He’s former military, too. I could see how not conforming to rank procedure would bug the guys. Transitioning out of a highly structured organization is notoriously challenging.

“Not sure.”

“Do you know the owners? Who they are?” I’m aware Caroline Moore and her husband are the investors, but his terminology has me wondering what he’s been told.

“Undisclosed. Explained to me as private investors.”